Little Pink Starfish

The most upvoted comment was about M-Show going viral, followed by comments asking why the scores were so generous.

Still, it seemed like people were starting to take an interest.

Some even said it might be worth watching if these two teams really were as good as the reviewer claimed.

“But what does ‘yang-kki’ mean?”

“It’s short for ‘yangachi-kki.’”

“Ku Tae-hwan?”

Han Si-on let out a thoughtful hum and looked at Ku Tae-hwan, tilting his head in slight confusion.

Ku Tae-hwan wondered what that gesture meant, but he didn’t ask.

He felt like the answer might be something unexpected—and he didn’t want to hear it.

What the members of Saedalbaegil didn’t know was that the “delinquents” Han Si-on had spent over a century dealing with were the American type.

The kind who’d take drugs, shoot guns, and casually get involved in crime.

So the term didn’t really make sense to him.

Not knowing this, Ku Tae-hwan spoke up.

“It’s kind of fascinating. That someone watched us and evaluated us like this.”

“They wrote only good things this time, but eventually we’ll get hate comments too.”

“True, but honestly, it doesn’t feel real. They say hate comments can really mess with you.”

“Jae-seong mentioned it earlier too, but Si-on, you’re really good with people. I always feel awkward and embarrassed.”

At Lee Ion’s comment, Han Si-on replied casually.

“Fans are people who actually buy our albums. They’re precious.”

“Albums?”

“Yeah. Someone once said buying an album is like using a priceless currency to own a moment of someone’s life.”

“That’s a nice sentiment… but why call that person a ‘punk’?”

“Just because.”

With that, Han Si-on shrugged and stood up.

“Shall we wrap up? I have plans tonight.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

As they packed up, Ku Tae-hwan felt a twinge of confusion.

Just a few minutes ago, Han Si-on had seemed fine—now his mood had dipped again.

---

Time spent with Saedalbaegil was more comfortable than expected.

Onsaemiro did show some strange negative vibes, but it didn’t seem directed at me.

Didn’t seem like she wanted me to drop out, but she wasn’t hoping I’d stay either.

I’m not sure what emotion it was.

Even after living for so long, I still can’t read people perfectly.

Anyway, in that relaxed atmosphere, I ended up talking more than I should have.

The thing I told Lee Ion—that line was something the demon once said to me.

I’ve met the demon three times so far.

The first time was when I made the contract.

At the scene of a car accident—time was stopped, my parents’ deaths delayed, and I was thrown into a sealed timeline.

All I was told that day was: I had to sell 200 million albums, and once I did, I’d be returned to the timeline of my choice.

I figured out the rest on my own, through painful trial and error.

Only physical albums were counted. Buying albums with my own money—even if I asked someone else to do it—didn’t count. Producing albums counted only if my contribution was significant enough.

And then there was that cursed rule: the moment I gave up, regression occurred.

Utterly unkind.

The second meeting came when I was mentally broken.

That time is a blur, but I think it was when I was trying EDM.

I was mentally wrecked, stuck in a loop of unconscious regressions.

I’d meet with lawyer Choi Ji-woon, then blink and find myself back at the intersection. I’d be walking through the airport gates, then blink and be back at the intersection again.

At its worst, I was being transported in an ambulance from the crash site—closed my eyes, opened them, and I was back inside the crashed car.

I was overwhelmed by the belief that this would never work.

Then the demon appeared again.

Just like the first time, it forcefully reactivated my logic and intellect.

It spoke—or rather, conveyed its meaning.

It said, it hadn’t even been a thousand or ten thousand years—why was this issue occurring?

That my chances of success were steadily increasing with every regression.

I think I was kind of shocked.

I’d assumed the demon had made similar contracts with others, endlessly, to corrode and consume souls.

So I never expected it to ask questions so calmly.

But I got emotional. Angry.

Instead of answering, I shot back with the questions I’d been dying to ask.

Why albums? If this wasn’t some cruel joke, then give me a reason.

The answer was unexpected:

“In the primitive era, offerings.
In the barbaric era, slaughter.
In the age of conquest, war.

These enriched the value of death.

But with the advent of civilization, death lost its value, and wealth gained it.

The world is no longer spun by people bracing for death—
It’s stirred by those clamoring over riches.

Yes, money.

To try to own a moment of someone’s life with a currency exchangeable for anything—that is offering. That is worship. That is conquest.

I stand at the crossroads of value, indulging in desires bound by it.

You were merely chosen as an agent.”

I had nothing to say.

I didn’t even need to ask why albums.

By that logic, fixed-form art like paintings or performance art like dance wouldn’t cut it.

Strangely, understanding the demon’s reasoning helped stabilize my crumbling emotions.

Maybe I’d been consumed by the fear that all my efforts were just the demon’s sick amusement.

After that, I asked more questions.

I was scared, sure—but I figured I wouldn’t get another chance like this. And strangely, the demon seemed to actually want me to succeed.

When I asked why only physical albums counted, it said things not tallied weren’t truly owned nor tied to value-bound desire.

When I asked if it had made contracts with others—like Beethoven or Mozart—it answered that those were ages of barbarism and conquest.

My final question was: what were my current odds of success?

And the answer:

“100%.”

If I could endure the trial of time, then 100%.

That was the second meeting.

As for the third…

I don’t want to think about it.

I never want to go through that again.

“Damn.”

Can’t believe I was reminiscing about all that.

That wasn’t the answer I should’ve given to Lee Ion.

It was unlike me to let something slip like that.

Maybe I’ve gotten too relaxed after returning to Korea.

Just then, my phone rang.

—“Han Si-on? Can you come to the station right now?”

It was PD Kang Seok-woo.

Looks like he heard about what went down with Fade and me.

---

PD Kang Seok-woo brightened slightly as he listened to PD Kim Dal-in’s serious report.

“Han Si-on said he’s confident he can get Chris Edwards to appear?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Huh. How’d he guess we were having trouble negotiating his appearance fee? Was that just a shot in the dark?”

“I… I don’t know?”

“That’s kinda amazing. Did you check with HR about the arranged version of ‘Flowers Bloom’?”

“…I haven’t asked yet.”

“Why not?”

“Sunbae, isn’t that not the main issue right now? Han Si-on said he’d drop out if Fade doesn’t apologize…”

“Oh, that?”

Kang Seok-woo chuckled.

“You think he really meant that? He’s not stupid.”

“Then what is his intention?”

“Beats me. But I think he knows which side holds more weight.”

“Huh?”

“Anyway, go. I’ll talk to him myself.”

Once Kim Dal-in left, grumbling, Kang Seok-woo made a call.

About 40 minutes later, Han Si-on arrived at the studio.

“Hello.”

“Ah, have a seat. Coffee?”

“Water is fine, thank you.”

After receiving a bottle of water, Han Si-on bowed his head.

“First, I apologize for causing a scene.”

“It’s alright. I heard the context—you didn’t start the conflict, after all.”

Privately, Kang Seok-woo thought Han Si-on might’ve provoked Fade on purpose.

Han Si-on likely knew he thought that.

Still, they exchanged polite pleasantries.

Then, the real talk began.

“I’ll make sure Fade apologizes tomorrow. Do you want them to go to your place?”

“No, just a recorded video will do.”

“Alright. Just curious—why did you react so strongly? Didn’t seem like you were just angry.”

“PD-nim, can I be honest?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

What Han Si-on said next was exactly what Kang Seok-woo expected.

Han Si-on knew he was a far more valuable presence than Fade on Coming Up Next.

He took the risk knowing that.

But one thing did catch Kang off guard—Han Si-on’s evaluation of Fade.

“Wait—he deliberately tried to kill Saedalbaegil’s spirit because he knew the footage wouldn’t air? He’s that calculating?”

If Kang Seok-woo had been on set to see the body language, he might’ve sensed it too, but just hearing it, he wasn’t sure.

Still, it didn’t matter.

Even if all of this was just Han Si-on trying to establish dominance—it didn’t bother him.

“So, I guarantee Fade’s apology, and in return, you guarantee Chris Edwards’s appearance. Deal?”

“If Edwards doesn’t appear, will the scale tip in Fade’s favor?”

“Heh, not falling for it, huh? You even talked to Go PD about the appearance fee, right? So what do you want?”

“Hmm…”

Han Si-on glanced at him and finally spoke.

“A lasting connection.”

“Between us? We already have one, don’t we? Honestly, I didn’t expect to be having this level of conversation with a twenty-year-old.”

“I mean more than a contestant-producer relationship.”

“Ah… You want me to owe you one.”

“That’s not exactly it…”

“Yeah, sure it isn’t.”

Kang Seok-woo laughed.

“But you know, right? Emotional debts only matter when the other person is worth caring about.”

It was a warning: to collect that debt, Han Si-on would have to keep his place in showbiz.

If he went back to being a regular civilian after the show—Kang Seok-woo would have no reason to help him.

Kang wasn’t a good person.

He was a good business partner.

And Han Si-on understood that.

“Of course.”

“Alright. When can you send the ‘Flowers Bloom’ rearranged version that HR requested?”

“By tomorrow before the end of the workday.”

“Good. Send it directly to me.”

“I also had a question. When I looked at Lion Entertainment’s YouTube, I didn’t see Fade anywhere.”

“Oh, that? Originally, Take Scene was a seven-member group. But eventually it got whittled down to five.”

“Two members were eliminated?”

“Yup. One of them, Action, had secured the fifth slot—but then had to quit due to family issues. That’s when Fade came back.”

“I see.”

Han Si-on nodded.

“Yeah. According to CEO Choi, Fade was someone they seriously considered until the very end, so skill-wise, he should be solid.”

“He is. Despite the conflict, objectively, he’s good.”

“Great. Even if you can’t be friends, let’s at least be fair in front of the camera.”

They chatted lightly a bit more before saying their goodbyes.

After Han Si-on left, Kang Seok-woo scratched his chin.

“Huh.”

No matter how you look at it, he doesn’t seem twenty.

His words are precise, his value assessments cold and sharp.

But that’s what Kang liked most.

If Han Si-on had the same skills but was emotional and unstable, Kang would never have bet on him.

So, even though Coming Up Next had drifted slightly from its original concept—it was sailing along just fine.